


The Glass of Champagne

by redletters



Category: Sally Lockhart - Philip Pullman
Genre: 19th Century, Bechdel Test Pass, Dancing, Drinking & Talking, Europe, F/F, Female Character In Command, Female Friendship, French Characters, Misses Clause Challenge, Royalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 19:41:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redletters/pseuds/redletters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One year after it all happened, Adelaide hosts the traditional New Year's Eve ball. Becky enjoys herself about as much as she expected. (AU in which Adelaide remained queen.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Glass of Champagne

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cosmic_llin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmic_llin/gifts).



When Becky found herself at the centre of a throng of admirers at the Royal New Year's Ball, a year after it all happened, she sniffed the champagne to see if any absinthe had slipped in. Adelaide wasn't even near her to impart a regal glow - in her most jewelled tiara and a crisp white ballgown, the queen was safely deep in English conversation with the French ambassador's wife. Yet somehow, in the three minutes since Becky had excused herself for a glass of punch to soothe her throat, she had collected a glass of fizz and a following of minor European dignitaries – and a few major ones.

"I was thrilled to hear of your exploits," a Polish duke said. "I'd have loved to be there and have tweaked the Kaiser's nose, ha!"

"It sounded terribly daring," agreed the younger son of one of the Empress's sisters. "An exploding train rushing through a midwinter snowstorm – too, too much!"

"And the Queen's followers, devoted unto death," said the viscount of Moravia, pressing his hand to his heart. "Did you really scale a mountain single-handedly with both legs broken?"

All eyes went to Becky's heroic legs, chastely covered in yards of lilac satin.

"Oh, no," Becky said modestly. She watched their faces drop slightly. "It was two ribs, actually."

They were all hunting men; they knew what that meant; Becky sipped her champagne and savoured the horrified admiration with which they now regarded her.

Adelaide was looking over her shoulder for someone, and it took Becky a moment to realise it was her. The Prussian ambassador was striding towards the queen and Mme Fouché, and with a brief regretful look at the Empress's nephew, Becky excused herself and returned to her official duties.

Herr Koch was prickly. He couldn't have missed how the glances at the Queen and her staff were admiring, and those at him were derisive – or worse, pitying. All Europe had taken note of the past winter's events.

He began by shooting a rude pun towards Adelaide, who picked it up and bared her teeth at him before sending back a reply via Becky. Becky put on her best blank, diplomatic smile. Oh well. She had been having fun.

After twenty minutes of Adelaide's gracious, steely conversation and Becky's subtle smoothing over rough language, Koch grew bored and drifted off towards one of the prettier ladies-in-waiting. The girl was the product of the music schools of Vienna, and had the sweetest laugh and the dirtiest mouth Becky had ever heard; Becky suspected Adelaide had invited her into the royal household for exactly that reason.

"Well done," said Mme Fouché, low. Adelaide started. It wasn't like her to forget someone's presence – she must have been more caught by the Prussian's barbs than Becky had realised. "He's such a ------", and used a word that even Becky didn't know, although the meaning wasn't in question.

Adelaide, still unsure about the French position, murmured something about everyone being tired from the delightful holiday season, but Mme Fouché clicked her tongue. "Oh, no. Don't waste more time thinking about him than you have to – he'll take up enough on his own."

The Empress's handsome young nephew was making eyes at Becky over the punch bowl. While she hadn't decided whether she was drawn to him, or to the prospect of being able to have another drink, she was about to ask Adelaide's permission to slip away again when Mme Fouché caught her attention irrevocably.

"Have you had an affair with any of them yet?" Mme Fouché said to Adelaide. She cast her eye over the young men clustered around the room. "Goodness knows if I were a pretty young widow, I'd never get any rest."

"It's hardly appropriate in my situation," Adelaide said stiffly, but Becky could see something begin to warm up and crackle in the roll of the queen's neck.

"It may not be appropriate, but it's certainly to be expected," Mme Fouché said. "I hardly ever see Philippe at home, and when he's away – " she shrugged. "Why not mix fun and work? In this climate it's just terrible to sleep alone. "

Adelaide's charm was back on, like a mask. "Oh, I don't sleep alone," she said with an artful carelessness. "Becky sleeps in my room, of course."

The lady shrugged, a distinctly Gallic motion that made Becky want to write a dissertation. By unspoken mutual agreement, Mme Fouché and Adelaide began chatting animatedly about the archbishop's terrible olive-green waistcoat, and whether the French king's mistress's health would return, and other light subjects with the plausible sheen of feminine gossip.

Becky curtsied and Adelaide nodded a dismissal, her dark eyes following Becky as she returned to the punch bowl, and the Empress's nephew. Soon, she found herself following very poorly in a waltz she didn't know at all.

Twenty minutes later Becky decided with annoyance that the result of too much champagne must be to make men make silly declarations and embarrass everyone around them.

He called her Diana, Athene and Joan of Arc; he threw up behind one of the pot plants. Becky felt sorry for him, it was barely eleven o'clock; there was still another hour to go before the new year began and the queen led the final dance of the evening.

Becky slipped upstairs to see if she could find a suitable gown sans the new stain on the hem, and maybe have a quick lie-down.

She awoke in her underclothes in the early hours of the night with the stars bright and close through the window. The room was freezing.

Adelaide was curled up in the armchair in her ballgown looking at her.

"You missed the new year," Adelaide said with her fine blend of petulance and affection. Her tiara and other jewels were scattered on the mirror table. "You'll have bad luck for the rest of it, now."

Becky sat up and groaned. "I'll have bad luck all the rest of tonight, that's for sure," she said. "You could have brought me some water if you were going to wake me up this ignominiously."

"I wasn't going to wake you up," Adelaide said defensively. "I was going to let you sleep all night and maybe into the afternoon. You saved me from having my evening ruined. Every time Herr Koch came up to speak to me, I looked around for you and pretended I didn't understand how ridiculously rude he was being. It was the best trick I've used all year."

"Oh," Becky said. There didn't seem to be any response to that that wasn't, "You're welcome for drinking too much and abandoning my duties".

"Was the viscount of Moravia nice to dance with?" she asked.

Adelaide considered, her head tilted, showing the white line of her throat in the starlight. "He was very polished," she said.

"Are you going to sleep with him?"

She snorted. "No. I fed him to Elise. I don't like polished people."

Adelaide yawned, then stood up and slipped out of her gown, which was already undone. It fell to the floor. She was in her shift. Becky propped herself up on her elbows, and Adelaide came towards her, pulling back the covers of Becky's bed.

"Get under," she said, and Becky, seeing the room as a detached observer might, as ever admired Adelaide's unstoppable, inarguable force of will disguised as graciousness. "Valerie's right. It's much too cold to sleep alone."


End file.
